As he walked across the farm-yard in search of his wife, there was an air about him that seemed to say, 'I am monarch of all I survey.' Indeed, few monarchs are as independent, and proud of their independence, as David Prothero of Glanyravon.
He was a tall, muscular man, of some fifty years of age.

He was well made, and of that easy, swinging gait, that is rather the teaching of Dame Nature, than of the dancing mistress or posture master.

His face was full and ruddy, betokening health, spirits, and that choleric disposition to which his countrymen are said to incline, whether justly or unjustly is not for me to determine.

His hair had a reddish tinge, and his whiskers were decidedly roseate, bearing still further testimony to a slight irrascibility of temperament.

But he was a good-looking man, in spite of his hair and whiskers, which, as his wife admired them, are not to be despised.
'Where's your mistress, Sam ?' roared Mr Prothero across the farm-yard.
'In the barn, master,' answered a man, who was eating bread and cheese on the gate, and swinging his legs pleasantly about.
'Tell her I want her,' In answer to the summons, immediately appeared his worthy helpmate.